Of Weirdlings and Other Folk
by Nostalgian
Summary: One-shot Fantasy-AU: Having to deal with a Weirdling can only be something of a culture-shock for Alfred. Besides, HE wanted to go to Whitefall, but NO, Arthur didn't.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** Ages back a friend of mine challenged me to try my hand at a fantasy AU with USUK, with the prompt of a magical plague effecting the land. This was sort of the brief one-shot that came from that. I did have a big long epic fiction planned for it, but I personally don't find fantasy AU's that interesting.

All the same it was rather fun to world-build. Especially designing how the magic worked, mhhhm. Big fan of sciency-magic.

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><p>Whilst I like to avoid infodumping, since I'm not continuing this story you might as well have a little bit about its inhabitants. In this AU, there are primarily four races; Selkies, Aelves, Wicca, and The Folk.<p>

**Selkies;** A semi-water dwelling breed that use a more infusion-based magic system. An example of their type of magic is used by the tree-demons in this one-shot. They are considered sentient, cultured, and like to eat raw eel best of all. Believed to be an old off-shoot from the Aelves, cross-bred with an unknown relative. Noted for unique take on natural magics.

**Aelves;** Traditionally use the magic-system Arthur demonstrates here (despite the fact he is Wicca), comparable to 'elves' although the culture of the Aelvish people is considered extremely feral, and animalistic by the majority of people. Considered originating magical breed. Noted for overwhelming sensitivity to intrusive magics.

**Wicca;** Directly descended from a mixture of Aelves and Folk. Far more Folk-like in societal structure, but possessing the magical tendencies (and thus cultural impact) of the Aelves. They consider themselves subservient to the Aelves. Whilst the Aelves looked down on them for many years as half-breeds, their culture has recently shown a great deal of intuition. They have a rivalry with The Selkies, and are feared by the Folk. Noted for versatility, and magical hardiness.

**Folk;** Non-magical 'folk' as it were. By and large they consider the Aelf rather separate from their lives, and in matters of magic, generally deal with the Wicca who they fear. Whilst there have been occasionally hate-crimes between the Folk and Wicca, the two societies recognize their need of each other. Certain strains of folk are bred for incredible strength. Noted for long-term genetic modeling.

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><p><em><strong>Of Weirdlings and other Folk.<strong>_

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><p>"Where'd you learn magic, anyway, Hermit?" Alfred kicked at a few rocks, sauntering along the woodland. The fool had no idea how many skittering magical creatures were fleeing from this great gallumping gallant git! Arthur sighed, pressing his fingertips against a tree, and began inquiring after the dryad who lived inside it. Gently, with tendrils of his mind, and magic (though sometimes it was hard to distinguish, so very hard to tell the difference) he felt down the roots of the tree, and into the leaves, making himself known quietly, gently. With a whumph, the 'hero' threw his own hand against the tree, and the dryad fled deep into the recesses of its leafy defenses, the psychic foliage obscuring Arthur's vision of the bony, wiry creature that lived therein. "Eh?"<p>

Arthur turned to glare venomously at Alfred. "I was asking for directions, you troglodyte." Arthur sighed, and pushed away from the bark of the tree, and snarled lightly at Alfred. His snarl was echoed by a shake of acorns clattering against Alfred's skull. At Alfred's pained complaint, Arthur retorted, "You scared the poor thing, no wonder it attacked you."

"Come on, that wasn't an attack. That was coincidence." Alfred shrugged lightly, and with a whiplash noise, several branches snapped off the tree and cracked against Alfred's head, the dry wood snapping. "Owch. Okay." He pulled his hand away from the tree. "Sorry Mister Tree."

Arthur sighed in irritation. "Dryads are hermaphrodites; but you should call it miss." He looked up at the tree, scowled, and stalked away, cloak whirling about him. "And it doesn't speak Common, anyway, come on." Alfred's footsteps pounded after him, stomping and slushing in the dry leaves. He, himself, slid over the leaves, causing barely a whisper through them. Alfred stared after the swishing, but silent cloak, and reminded himself that this man was one of the weirdling – such strangeness was to be expected.

"So, you haven't answered me," Alfred grinned, hopping to the side of the resolute magician. "Where exactly did you learn magic?"

"Magic is the slang term, can you at least speak Common correctly?" Arthur snapped when the palm of Alfred's hand pressed against his shoulder, and he frantically brushed it off.

"Alright, no need to be so horrible. Where'd you learn to weird?"

"That's just an insulting aspersion now." Arthur sighed. "You shouldn't use a foul word like that, not without washing your mouth out." Arthur adjusted his knapsack, stopping short, Alfred crashing into his back, and quickly jumped back when Arthur caught him in a fierce glance tossed over the shoulder. Arthur rooted through his bag, looking for something.

"What would you call it then?"

"Hm?" Arthur glanced back at Alfred, who stuck his obnoxious, patented obnoxious face straight at Arthur, beaming. "Gya?"

"What would you call it." Alfred repeated, smiling brightly, and Arthur gave him an odd look, before shrugging, and continuing to search his bag.

"Seithr, at least that was the branch I was using then."

"Branch?" Alfred inquisitively smiled at Arthur, who pulled out a jangling necklace of pieces of shell, and glass. "What's that?"

"Seidrn branch magic, since we're lost and you scare away anyone I can ask." Arthur shook the necklace in the air, the glass catching on the barred light and glinting. "I'm consulting a borial." Alfred's blank expression was exasperating, and Arthur stopped waving the piece of etheric equipment around fruitlessly. "A borial is a magical map."

"Oh right!" Alfred snapped his fingers. "Gotcha!" He paused "Don't you need to shut your eyes, or something? You know." Arthur stared at him. "For the magic to work correctly?"

"Ether." Arthur corrected. "It's called Ether, not magic. Technically. And no, that's just silly." Arthur tossed the necklace into the air and it flew high into the streaming light, then tumbled down at their feet. Alfred blinked. "Right, this way." Arthur scooped up the borial and stomped off into the undergrowth.

"Wait, wait, I didn't see anything!" Alfred yelled haplessly.

"Figures, 'hero'. You need to be more mindful of things." Arthur shoved the borial into his satchel again.

"Huh? I'm plenty mindful!"

"Oh really, what sort of tree attacked you then?"

"Uh… a… leafy one?"

"Right. Even without ether you should be able to recognize an oak tree; it was a Northern Oak." Arthur hummed for a second. "Or it sounded northern."

"Sounded?"

"Tasted." Arthur amended.

"Tasted?" Alfred stared at his companion.

"…felt?" The two of them stared at each other for a few moments. "It's difficult to explain; the dryad's etheric…" Arthur cast about for the correct word.

"Magical aura." Alfred supplied helpfully.

"Etheric Presence." Arthur rolled his eyes. "Had a northern… dialect to its Seithr." Arthur shrugged and continued on his way. "Regardless, this will be the right route."

Alfred looked down the 'route' Arthur intended to take, the branches of the trees curled like defiant fists, and the leaves flared like the tail of a hawk. "To the town, right?" Arthur looked back at him.

"Why would we be going to a town?"

"Whitefall – I thought we were going to Whitefall." Alfred asserted, crossing his arms defiantly. "I don't want to be in the woods overnight."

Arthur laughed. "Well, I suppose we might be passing Whitefall, but it'll take longer to go via a town. Besides, it's safer in the woods."

"And supplies?" Alfred's mouth set in an angry and surprised line.

Arthur pointed at the ground. "This wood is friendly enough – it won't begrudge us some vittles." Alfred reached out, and seized Arthur by the tail of his cloak. "Oi, get off, trollbreath."

"We are so not staying the night in this place – it's creepy, weirdling."

Arthur jerked his cloak back with a pull. "Don't call me that." He spat it out harshly. Anger colouring through his voice like murk in water. "Wicca, if you must. Magician, if you insist on being wrong." Arthur fussed with his cloak, eying Alfred menacingly. The sediment of his anger settled near the bottom of his voice, nigh undetectable, but making it low. "Which you do, twat."

"We are not staying in this forest overnight," Alfred insisted, and stepped forward, preparing to pluck Arthur up in his arms. "And that's final." Arthur promptly darted to the side, almost as though he hadn't moved. Barely a flitter of green cloak, and then he was gone. A leafy movement, spindly and thin.

"Scared?" Arthur inquired, licking his lips. "Big damn hero not so big when he's lost in the woods then?" Arthur stepped forward, eying the taller man, smirking a wolf smile, full of teeth and tense thoughts. "Are you frightened of this place, then?"

Alfred stepped back a pace, eyes widening. "Of course." Alfred stared up into the canopy, searching out some glint of sky. "I'm brave enough to admit this place is unnatural."

_Unnatural?_ Arthur glanced round the forest, and listened to the scuttling sounds of sprites, of merquil darting deep into its crevices and craning secrets. "It's not unnatural – it's the most natural thing in the world." Arthur had expected fear, but not that. "Is that what you all," Arthur gestured to his left. "All of you, outside, think? You think we are… unnatural?"

Alfred nodded tersely. "Just plain uncanny what weirdlings do." He shivered. "Not natural at all."

"Not natural?" Arthur continued to stare at him, genuinely shocked.

"Not natural." Alfred repeated.

"Is… is this because you cannot see it?" Arthur inquired uncomfortably.

"That too." Alfred added. "I half-think this plague has been sent to punish you all for your sins. We know if you stop using your magic, then you don't become infected; what else could that mean?"

_That was a ridiculous assertion, _in Arthur's opinion. The Plague was no doubt some medical matter, true, it was an etheric malady, but to place the blame itself on where the symptoms manifests? Correlation did not naturally mean causation – even a first year child of the wicca knew that. "It could mean the disease – which affects magic – spreads via magic."

"Or demons have entered your bodies."

"Demons?" Arthur blinked in shock. "Demons are very gentle, and don't generally have that magical degree…" Arthur looked around. "There are wood demons all about us – they _are_ the wood." Alfred jolted.

"We're surrounded?" He looked either way. "Way to go Magician!"

"We're safe!" Arthur insisted, swallowing tersely, and gently offered out his hand to the other man. "Please? I could show you…"

Alfred reached out to take Arthur's hands, smiling uncertainly. "Please? Please wha- wait- show?" Alfred cut off, eyes widening as their fingers met. A sliver of something – _something_ – spread down his bones, scraping them gently. It was deeply silent, Arthur didn't dare 'speak' because it wasn't quite speaking; it was slightly difficult to pin it down. No, it couldn't let his mind wander. Arthur looped the sliver of ether about Alfred and _pulled_. Downwards. Unshakably down.

With a catch of ether, Arthur touched the earth gently, and spooled them together into the dirt, the mud, and let it balm over them. Humming with the voice of the forest, always, constant, a moment that hung deeply in the and the dark and the warmth. Arthur pressed them down to it, planting both their feet through the dead leaves, and crashed, craving, purring like a slinky burst of gold, into the roots, where the autumn rust collected in the halls below the trees. The trees roared, murmurs and murmurs, a wave of them washing over them both. Arthur rushed to hush them, and quiet them, cutting over them with tendrils: they humoured him. Their voices turning soft, growly and smooth with amusement and patience.

Alfred yanked his hand away, and Arthur sighed. "Seithr." He explained gently. "I sent out some of my… me-ness and your you-ness into the world to say hello. The demons replied with their they-ness. They're not evil, see how kindly they answered? It's not unnatural; how could it be when it's from our very nature?"

Alfred scratched at his hand, scratched and scratched. "The trees have voices!" He hissed, dropping into a crouch eyes casting about, and clawing at his hand. "Weirdling." The anger was tight in Alfred's throat, making his words clipped and sharp, like little arrows. "You didn't tell me you would do that. You invaded me."

Arthur recoiled, flinching and expression creased with shock.

"I only invited you along…" Arthur whispered, dropping down beside Alfred. "So you could see. Hear. Taste. Feel. I would never invade another man's mind. Never. That, that is unnatural. As unnatural as murdering somebody, or forcing them." Arthur's voice cracked into the silence. "This isn't. I would never use Bei-" Arthur cut off, looking uncomfortable, and Alfred paused in his scratching for a moment. It hung awkwardly between them, as though Arthur had said something foul, profane and yet secret. "Look." Arthur gestured at the ground. "They were glad; they gave you this."

Between the two of them, a small pile of bright cyan mushrooms, glittering and full-grown, glinted. Alfred began scratching again.

"How could that be unnatural…" Arthur murmured staring at the glowing plants with quiet adoration. "It grew from you."

"From?" Alfred was now shocked out of scratching at his hand, which had begun to bleed quietly. "So… those are like my kids?"

The moment was definitely over, as Arthur gave Alfred a surprised and patronizing look. "What?" Alfred touched the mushrooms thoughtfully. "They're for you to eat." Arthur gritted out. "A gift from the forest – to restore your strength. Geez." Arthur plucked up the mushrooms, and got to his feet, turning away. "…it's not unnatural."

"It's not normal either." Alfred murmured quietly, getting to his feet, the blue-spark of the mushrooms already knitting his injured hand together again.

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><p><strong>May your quills be ever sharp.<strong>


End file.
